


Everybody Wants to Rule the World

by Shirley_Templar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drug Dealer! Norway, Drug Use, FBI! Germany, Gore and Violence, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hitman Jones, Hitman!Jones, I’m too lazy to tag everyone lol, Mafia Romano, Mafia! Prussia, Multi, Organized Crime, Sex/Implied sex, Strong Language, Writer! Denmark, alcohol use, graphic description of gore, mafia, slight bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirley_Templar/pseuds/Shirley_Templar
Summary: Lovino turned toward him, piercing eyes cracking through every piece of his being. It seemed as though Alfred’s skin was translucent, and Lovino could see every little bit of his mind, his heart. His soul. Every little neuron firing as blood-covered thoughts raced through his head like skeletal greyhounds. Then there it was- a ghost of a smile on the perfect, handsome face.***Hello, everyone! This is my first published story! It is also available on Wattpad under "Everybody Wants to Rule the World". I am still figuring out titles, lol. (I first post on there then edit a few times before putting it here). Updates will not always be frequent, as I am quite busy with school, sports, and music.





	1. Do You Have Room For One More Troubled Soul?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murderer seeks sanctuary (or a psychopath does a job interview).

__

 

 

 

      Alfred wasn't always like this.

      Or maybe he was.

      If he wasn't, he must have snapped some time in his early life, so it really didn't matter.

      He was a troubled kid, though- he wasn't expected to be alright. At eight years old, his parents had died in a house fire. The oven malfunctioned, burning their quaint little suburban home to bits. Alfred didn't remember it, but he still imagined it. In his mind, he watched (in a sick kind of infatuation) the flames contrast sharply with the bright blue sky, the well manicured trees and hedges slowly burning down until they were level with the ashy foundation of the home.

      He lived with his grandparents, then. It lasted a year. They cooed over him, pitying the poor child but also because it was pleasant to have another person around the house. His grandpa played guitar for him and his grandmother knitted all manner of sweaters and scarves. That all changed when they found him with the neighbor's dog, steak knife in hand and blood splattered all over his Sunday best. The dog's stomach was ripped open, its guts spilling out onto the grass. Bright eyes shone behind black-framed glasses.

      He was tossed around between relatives who were scared of him and the things he did. His aunt found him with a decapitated prairie dog. His cousin with a nest of baby birds, all four with snapped necks and twisted spines. The mother bird was dead too- her feathers ripped out one at a time.

     "I didn't want her to fly away", he had said. "Her babies needed her."

     Eventually, he was put into foster care. Even though the families were generally nice people, he still felt alone. Unwanted.

     The men in suits came when he was twelve.

     He didn't understand it then. He didn't understand them now.

     They were trying to make a weapon out of him. And he might have complied, if his mentors weren't so soft.

     He'd killed one when he was fifteen.

     At sixteen, Arthur got him out.

     Arthur was an agent for INTERPOL. He was monitoring the work, but his heart was too big. He was supposed to kill Alfred- he had been deemed a failed project. But Arthur couldn't just murder a (relatively) innocent child. He took him to an apartment, kept him there for two years. But at eighteen Alfred threatened to kill Arthur if he didn't let him go. The agent complied with his demands. Perhaps he could see that Alfred was a lost cause, that he was far too broken to be fixed. Sometimes, you had to throw things away.

     He became a hitman almost immediately. He was trained for it, after all. A literal killing machine. He did jobs for anyone who could pay- the wealthy, gangs, the mob- but what really mattered was the chase. That was the best part. Not the money he would receive afterwards, but the adrenaline rush that came when his fingers slid over the trigger.

     Alfred had dabbled in bodyguarding as well. They were all one time gigs and weren't his favorite, but he figured that with the right person, everything would work out.

     That's why he was here. In the Vargas mansion, with two men in black leading him to his job interview.

     It should be noted that the term "job interview" is used very loosely here.

     Soon enough, they came to a big mahogany door at the end of a hallway. Muffled cries could be heard from inside. One of the men opened the door for Alfred. He waltzed right in, about as cautious as a bull elephant.

     Inside, an adult male was tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth and hands behind his back. He had a black eye and several missing fingers, as well as a cut off ear. Standing over him was the most beautiful creature Alfred had ever seen.

     Maybe it was those sparkling sea green eyes. The warm brown hair. The flawless olive skin. The high set cheekbones.

     Maybe it was the smirk on his face. The fresh blood splattered on his shirt. The knife in his hand. The way he cut through his captive's tendons slowly and surely.

     He seemed to have the years of practice most others in the business had, but he also seemed to be enjoying it. A lot of times, there's only so many people one can murder and torture before it stops being fun. For Alfred, that never happened. And it didn't seem this was true for the mystery man, either.

     The latter looked up from his work.

     "Ah, sorry. I'll finish up." The knife slid through the man's throat. A grotesque choking noise could be heard, but then it all went silent. The knife was wiped off on a silk handkerchief. "You two can leave." He waved the men out. They took the body, chair and all, with them.

     Now, as he walked towards his desk, Alfred could tell what sort of man he really was. An expensive looking vest traveled down to his dress pants. A fedora sat cocked on his head. One lock of hair didn't sit right.

     He was handsome, and seemed to put work into his appearance. Alfred took the chair on his end of the desk.

     "Jones, correct?" He asked in what Alfred deemed a heavy Italian accent. Good. Most of these mafia types knew their stuff.

     "Yep." He said, popping the p. The blonde grinned rakishly. "But you can call me Alfred." The brunette raised an eyebrow.

     "Very well, Alfred. I've looked through your papers, I liked what I saw. Not only that, but you are extremely easy on the eyes. You're hired."

     "Hell yes. 'Alfred F. Jones, right hand to the head of the Family'- I love the sound of that." A chuckle came from the other person in the room.

     "Perfecto. And if you wish- call me Lovino in private. In public, everyone normally calls me boss. And in bed... Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Lovino winked. Alfred's grin widened, his tongue hanging out of his mouth a bit.

     "Why don't we cross that bridge now?"

 

 

 


	2. I've Only Felt Religion When I've Lied With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some sins even God cannot forgive. (Once a killer, always a killer.)

 

     Lovino was born an angel from Heaven, but would die a demon of Hell. 

  
     He was born into it. Forced into it. He really had no other choice, but he pretended he did. 

  
     For a long time he had fancied himself a hero. A good Catholic man with morals. But those thoughts of a god were fancies, and only fancies. He quickly realized that you cannot just beg forgiveness after killing a man. 

  
     Grandpa never approved of religion, anyway. Beliefs changed and faltered and could never really be trusted. A gun could be trusted, however. And a sharp knife. 

  
     All a man really needed in life was a pack of cigars and a pistol, Grandpa would always say. Lovino was starting to think he was right.

  
     When Grandpa allowed him to take up the violin, he was surprised. Grandpa rarely did anything that wouldn't do any good to the family. 

  
     Grandpa was the boss of the Vargas family- the most influential family in America. So Romulus knew his stuff. He was a man of craftsmanship- if the art of death and torture could ever be compared to the making of a cabinet. 

  
     At a young age, Lovino had a set of dead parents and a set of younger brothers. Grandpa was the only constant. The family was the only constant. The work was the only constant. And Him... No, he would rather leave some things in the past. 

  
     His youngest brother, Sebastian, was caught in the crossfire of a gang war at fifteen. Feliciano couldn't take it. He left. Left the family, and left Lovino all alone as he struggled with his guilty conscience. Now, there was only a fragment of him left. In those sad and nervous gazes over the dinner that only came once a year. Maybe less. 

  
     So Lovino sunk into his work. He cast away the childhood fantasies and learned to enjoy it. To enjoy the blood on his hands, on his face. He learned how to kill someone as slowly and painfully as possible. Life is short. Let's make death long. 

  
     He felt so free without the restraints of morals. He didn't care if he went to Hell- he had already experienced heaven. It came in the form of blown out brains and second smiles drawn in red.

  
     Long ago, he thought he was the hero of some glorious tale. Someone who would save the day, shut down the mafia from the inside. Instead, he found himself the villain. 

  
     The antagonist of his own story. How fitting. 

  
     Now, silver smoke billows from his mouth. It takes the shape of a dragon. 

  
     Lovino always has one after an earth-shattering night. He looks at Jones' maniac smile and knows that he'll have to buy a lot cigars. 

  
     Said blonde spins around in the Italian's office chair, high on something he found in Lovino's desk. Track marks show clearly on his arms. Discarded needles lay on the ground. Only God knows what that was. 

  
     That's when Gilbert bursts through the door. 

  
     Gilbert never knocks. He's a sight, as always. Ruffled silver hair, unhealthily pale skin, and those red eyes that unnerved even the most steadfast of people. He was unearthly, but also completely human. The worst of gods and men combined. 

  
     Lovino remembered when he was still an officer of the law, an experienced FBI agent who took a heavy amount of bribes. He was too good at it. He got caught. They always do. 

  
     Gilbert raised a sharp eyebrow on his angular face. Words were harsh in that ever-recognizable German accent. 

  
     "Who's this, boss?"

  
      Alfred spun faster in the chair. 

  
     "A new friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Colors by Halsey


	3. From The Second I Was Born I Think I Had A Loaded Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hate the sin love the sinner. (The story of a dysfunctional family, a badge, and Chopin.)

 

      Gilbert never really fit in. Not with his family, not with the kids at school, not with the general public. 

  
     He was different. Just that. And he hated saying it, because that sounded like he was the Mary-Sue protagonist of some novel written for teenage girls. But sometimes, he just had to admit it. 

  
     When he was young, he experienced first hand how cruel children could be. No one ever let him play with them because of his freaky pale skin, silver hair, and worst of all, his red eyes- All consequences of albinism, along with requiring sunglasses and copious amounts of sunscreen on days with pleasant weather. Who wanted to hang out with a kid who looked like a rat from PetCo, anyway? 

  
     His family wasn't much better, honestly. He knew that Grandfather tried his Goddamned best to look after two children at far too old of an age, and he couldn't help the cold nature that came with a childhood during World War II. But him and Ludwig were far too straight-laced. 

  
     Ludwig was perfect. Gilbert loved him, really. He didn't think he could really, truly hate any of his family members. But Gilbert envied how his wrists weren't marred with pale, white scars. How he understand every subject in school and always did his assignments on time. How he never had a shoebox full of joints under his bed.

  
     Gilbert was reminded of the time he offered the kid a beer when the blonde was 17. 

  
     "No thanks." He had responded. 

  
     "What? I would have killed for free alcohol at your age!"

  
      "I'm not old enough." Ludwig said plainly, going back to his homework. 

  
      A respect for authority was something Gilbert lacked. Why respect anything you don't agree with? 

  
     He made up for his faults with skill and animalistic savagery. He wouldn't have made it into the Bureau otherwise. 

  
     There were some friends, of course. But they were hard to make, with his appearance combined with being an English-as-a-second-language student. Honestly, he didn't know why he was labeled as such. He was fluent in both English and German since the day he was born. Gilbert guessed they were just trying to train the accent out of him, which would never happen. It could very well be the only piece of his Grandfather he'd have left, after all...

  
     Elizabeth was met first, in seventh grade. Her name was actually something Hungarian, but she despised it. Although they were mortal enemies at first, they became (though they would never admit it) some of the closest friends. Liz had introduced him to her fancy private school friend, a preppy little piano prodigy named Roderich.  
Roderich could relate to him a lot. They both spoke German, had an almost obsessive love for music (Gilbert played the flute, and was pretty damn good), and a short temper. Gilbert could read his feelings with what he played. He could still hear the angry Chopin ringing in his ears, those delicate fingers banging keys with undeniable force.   
The three of them made a fine trio. There were plenty of memories to be made, like vandalizing the tables at lunch with sharpied signatures, spray painting swears on the football field, and those were just the ones he had done with Liz. With Roderich, they had afternoon jam sessions (Gilbert on flute, Roderich on piano, and Elizabeth on viola), and those times late at night where they would sneak into the rich boy's bedroom through the window and giggle about drama from school.   
Gilbert had other friends, too. Like Alin and that Bulgarian boyfriend of his, who had dealt him his first hardcore drugs. That first LSD trip in eleventh grade was truly a moment to treasure. 

  
     Ok, so maybe Liz and Roderich were his only friends back then. 

  
     Unfortunately, when Gilbert was accepted into the FBI, he had to leave his friends for a while. But if that was the cost of making his Grandfather proud, he'd do anything.  
He never liked his bosses there. They reminded him far too much of his brother. Said brother was also accepted, and rose through the ranks far quicker. At one point, his brother was his boss. Which turned out to be a good thing when he was found taking bribes. 

  
     Lovino Vargas was someone Gilbert liked. The Italian was suave when he was not, had elegance where he lacked it. But they shared an eat-or-be-eaten mentality, an extraordinary cruelty, and a knowledge of how to make the cutting out of someone's tongue as painful as possible. 

  
     And so Gilbert participated in a few 'extracurricular activities' with him, if you will. They fucked a few times. They got high a few times. They did both at once a few times. But the main deal was Gilbert getting money and Lovino getting information. He didn't really need that information, however. He just wanted the devil on his side. 

  
     But people hear and people talk. The deal was never meant to last that long, anyway. It was a damned good thing that Ludwig gave him a clean escape. 

  
     Gilbert hated that look he had been given. It was a look of betrayal and disappointment. It made him realize that because he screwed around too much, his little brother had become the adult. 

  
     So he ran. He ran and he made a contract. 

  
     And so Lovino was Boss in public, Mr. Vargas with company, and Lovi when they were on their own. 

  
     Gilbert wondered what Jones (he was a recognizable face in the world of crime) called him when he wasn't high off his ass. Perhaps he was always high off his ass. All the things he knew were from shady rumors and doubtful whispers. Who's to say this psychopath wasn't a psychopath at all, but a perfectly fine young man with a few extra talents. 

  
     Alas, names were names, and there were far too many notches on the hilts of his knives to remember who lived or who died. 

  
     Dying is for saints.

  
    Living is for sinners. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Shots by Imagine Dragons


	4. There's a Madness in us All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ponderings of the sane and the not so much. (Do all locks have keys?)

  


     Days were kind of like cigarettes. You take one out of the pack, you use it, but it always burns out. 

  
     Time is an interesting concept. An hour can feel like millennia, but in a millennia, will anyone remember that hour?

  
     People were kind of like cigarettes, too. You use one, it burns out. Sometimes, you just stub 'em early. They were dispensable. In the end, we're all dispensable.

  
     These were the thoughts that float around the brain of a maniac like Alfred. Curious things, thoughts are. They flit around in your head like birds, but the vultures are the only ones that make it out alive. Alfred quite liked the idea of little vultures in his head. 

  
     "Ciao, Alfred." Lovino had walked into the parlor that Alfred was sort-of smoking in (his cigarette was in his hand, but seemingly abandoned).

  
     "What's your favorite kind of bird, Boss?" Lovino seemed to ponder the thought. 

  
     "I've never really thought of that before. Eagles, maybe. Or peafowl." Alfred nodded.

  
     "Yeah, I like eagles. I once saw a video of an eagle killing a baby deer! It was so cool!" Lovino laughed at this. 

  
      They stood there for a while, looking out the open third-story window into the busy streets and crowded city blocks of Chicago. 

  
      "If we go down," started Alfred, "I want to go down together." The Italian raises an eyebrow.

  
      "Contemplating suicide already? I thought you liked the job!" Alfred let out a little chuckle. 

  
      "I do! It's just... I'm bound to go down sometime. And I'd rather do it with you." The maniac's vibrant blue eyes met Lovino's with a kind of softness. Both of them understood each other, now. Everyone dies alone, but there is nothing wrong with propagating an illusion of dying together. False hope is still hope, after all. 

  
       "They've got no room in heaven for people like us." Lovino stated, quite clearly. It was a fact; not objective in the truest sense. 

  
       "Well, I guess we'll just have to go to Hell, then." Alfred answered, a silly grin on his face. He felt like it was his last night on earth, and he didn't care at all.

  
        The way Alfred's face was lit by soft lamps and distant street lights gave him an almost unearthly glow. A perfect specimen, made in the image of God.

  
        All Lovino could see was an angel. An angel of death, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless. 

  
***

     Across the city, Officer Beilschmidt closes his laptop and gathers his papers. His gaze falls on a little framed picture sitting on his desk. 

  
     What a recognizable face- Silver hair, red eyes. 

  
     Ludwig blamed himself for what had befallen his older brother. What drove him to turn to a life of crime? Maybe, he should've been more lenient with Gilbert. Everyone makes mistakes. And they were family, after all. Family should be the first to forgive. 

  
     But nothing could change now. It was all in the past. All he remembered was that last look they shared before Gilbert turned tail and ran. Those red eyes were a mix of emotions, so stewed together that they were unrecognizable. What used to shine so clearly was muddled with malice... Or was it grief? 

  
     He sighs. The headache that he thought he lost has come back. He remembers that he's got work to do tomorrow - there are dangerous criminals on the loose. (A snide little voice in his head adds "Like Gilbert".)

  
    While he gathers papers into his briefcase, Ludwig notices a note he can't recall seeing before. He had many visitors today, perhaps one of them dropped it?

  
    He starts to doubt the accident theory when he sees the addressee.  _Ludwig Beilschmidt_ , the letter reads.  _Come in early tomorrow. I'd like to negotiate_. 

  
     The letter is signed R.L.V.. Of course. Who else? 

  
     Ludwig's not an idiot. He knows that the mafia boss will blow his brains out the first chance he gets. 

  
     But his mind is connecting dots- Could this be the key to finding Gilbert?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from So American by Portugal the Man


	5. I'm Not Passive But Aggressive (Take Note, It's Not important)

_Deals and Donuts._

           Just a few blocks away from Beilschmidt's office, a rundown brick apartment building sits on a corner. There's no denying it's far from great- but the residents are still thankful. Rent isn't crazy, the rooms aren't that shitty. It's a haven for poor musicians, street rabble, and all manner of folks from all around the city.  
          On the 9th floor of this building, Matthias Kølher types lackadaisically on his keyboard, the blue light of his computer reflecting onto his face. He's writing yet another worthless article.   
He never wanted to be a journalist. But that's what paid the bills. He got a job with a small news organization, but money was still hard to find. Shifts at Shake Shack were often necessary if he wanted to continue living his (ultimately) worthless life.   
        Matthias's true passion, other than weed and messily snorting cocaine, was creative writing. He had written short stories, long stories, and everything in between. But all of them lacked substance- because he lacked inspiration.  
        He could find no excitement in his life anymore. It all seemed so dull and boring. If you live for the sake of living, why live at all? Well, Matthias did it as a slap in the face to God. You tried your hardest to make me go, but I ain't leaving just yet!  
        As you can see, he was stubborn. Stubborn and oftentimes lacking in intelligence. Smart people don't have a shoebox full of pot under their bed, after all.   
        He closes his laptop and sighs. His hands are itching for something. He needs a joint. He's been two months without one because his dealer relocated.   
        There's a paper slip in his back pocket from a dude who talked to him about the glory of marijuana. He decides to take read it.   
        Apparently, it's a reliable dealer. A conversation is written down on the paper, which Matthias will have to initiate so that he doesn't come off as an undercover officer, a big problem in the area. There's a street and a door number written down too.   
       He strips to his boxers and falls into bed. He'll do it tomorrow. Hopefully without getting mugged. 

***

       The next morning, Ludwig walks into his office early, as the note had asked. Of course, a slim, brunette figure sits in his chair. Sea green eyes sparkle in a jesting sort of way. He's got a dangerous sort of smile, the kind that gives him a feline sort of look. He's certainly attractive- If you like your men with a side of gruesome murder, that is.   
       It seems like the scent of blood hangs around the room. Perhaps it's just the cologne that Ludwig associates with gore-covered crime scenes.   
       "Hello, officer." Said the intruder. He was certainly nice to listen to- an Italian accent gave him an exotic and intriguing air.   
       "Mr. Vargas." Says Ludwig tentatively, as if testing the waters.  
An arm wraps around his shoulders. He would've flinched if he knew who it was.  
       "So you're the famous Ludwig Beilschmidt, huh?" The person next to him inquires. Ludwig pushes the arm off, taking a step away. He, like anyone else in law enforcement, knows the face of Chicago's most wanted criminal. The hitman shrugs and munches a donut. "I hope you don't mind me raiding the break room for snacks!" Jones' gaze falls on the little picture of Gilbert.  
       "You know Gilbert?" he asks.  
       "Yes, he does." Lovino answers for him. "And you haven't seen him in a long time, have you?" Ludwig nods. He thinks he might know where this little conversation is going. "Perhaps we can..  Arrange a meeting. I can't guarantee that your brother will cooperate, of course. But if you agreed to give me a favor in return, I'll let you try.  
       The offer is tempting. So very tempting. But what will the favor be?   
       A battle rages in Ludwig's heart. A battle between his brain and his heart.  
       "Deal."  
       His heart won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Kids Aren't Alright by Fall Out Boy


	6. We Were Never Supposed to Make it Half This Far

_New beginnings and old endings._

In some deep dark corner of Lovino's mind, there was a quiet little voice. The voice whispered of days gone by, of Sebastian and Feliciano, and of Him.

The voice didn't call him Him, though. That was a term Lovino had coined himself. A way to mask the person who tore his world in two. But there were days when he was tired of refusing to confront the past. And on those days, he knew Him as Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo.

He had known Antonio since they were children together, playing football (or as those idiotic Americans would call it, soccer) in the streets with a few other kids. All of them were the children of others in the family, Grandpa's friends.

But to Antonio, the family was a cage. He whispered to Lovino in his cheerful voice, daydreams of things that would never come true. Of leaving the city. Leaving together.

Antonio was his first love, and his first heartbreak. He left the city to work a decent job and become an honest man. But Lovino was trapped- trapped in a never-ending cycle of torture, death, and grief.

The experience hardened him, in a way. Because at the end of the day, they were silly teenagers with silly dreams in a cruel world. Toni didn't belong in that cruel world we call earth. Toni didn't deserve to walk with us sinners. He deserved to walk with the angels in heaven.

Perhaps he was already there. Lovino hadn't seen him in ten years, after all. Only thoughts of him remained. Vague pictures of emerald green eyes and the contrast of hazelnut hair on his sunkissed skin. Trapped in the prison that is his mind.

***

      Matthias dug his hands into the pockets of his worn-out jeans, staring at the grungy looking door in front of him. He glanced around every few seconds, knowing that a skinny little guy like him would be easy pickings for anyone who decided to take a walk in the alley. He really needed to start going to the gym again.   
       Suddenly, the door in front of him opened, revealing the man Matthias assumed was the one with the weed.   
       A pale blue button-up was pushed to the elbows, revealing sleeves of tattoos on his forearms. They were simply black, what some may call plain, but the way they looked on that pale, snowy skin was gorgeous.   
       On his face was a neutral but firm expression, like he didn't take shit from anyone. Icy blue irises tore through wherever they stared. One side of his short, ash blonde hair was held back with a black cross pin. Damn, Matthias wanted to get into those pants.  
       "Hey." Said Matthias, trying not to reveal his nervousness.   
       "Hello." Responded the shorter of the two. His voice carried a slight Northern-European lilt to it.  
       "Cherrybomb." Said Matthias, quietly. That was the password, although he suspected it was only for the week.   
       "Come in." The shorter opened the door for him, and shut it after him when he came through. He waved to a couch. "Have a seat. First ones on the house."   
        A rakish grin was on Matthias' face as the dealer took out a little box from under an armchair.   
       "You do this for all your customers?"  
       "Only the hot ones." A blush appeared on the Dane's face.   
       "I'm Matthias." He said, trying to redirect the conversation before he got a boner.   
       "I'm Lukas."   
       "Lukas, huh?" Matthias rolled the name around in his mouth, savoring each syllable like it was some type of dessert. Lukas handed him a pre-rolled blunt, lighting both his and Matthias'. The taller barely got a drag in before Lukas was straddling him.   
       "I've got a Prince Albert..." He whispered hotly into Matthias' ear. There was no way to hide that boner now. "Wanna see it?"  
       He was fucked. Utter and totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Young and Menace by Fall Out Boy


	7. We're Saints Just Swimming In Our Sins Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tale of estranged brothers and a glass of Prosecco.

 

         Ludwig Beilschmidt, too stared at a door. But he was there to meet someone far different. It wasn't a meeting at all. Rather, a reunion. 

  
       The blonde was nervous. His hands shook a bit. But he could do it. \

  
       He took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and reached out to knock on the door. A doorway to another world, he mused. To a sick kind of Narnia. 

  
       Footsteps could be heard. They seemed to keep pace with the ticking of his watch.

   
       The door opened.

   
       Red eyes were blown wide with shock. Gilbert's mouth fell open a bit. 

  
       "Ludwig?" He said in a questioning sort of way. He grinned, and Ludwig grinned back.

  
       Gil looked like he came straight from the fifth circle of Hell, as always. Short silver hair grew wild on his head, matching the elegant eyebrows that never really went with his style. He had an sharp and angular face, quite a difference compared to the squarer bones of his little brother. Both siblings were muscular, but Gilbert was leaner and had an aura of feline grace around him at certain times. 

  
        However, the grin faded from Gilbert's face in what could have been a split-second. His expression hardened, the fire in his eyes snuffed out. He pulled a gun out. To Ludwig, the cocking of the pistol was deafening. 

  
        "I'm not letting you take me." It wasn't bargaining. No, the elder brother was deathly serious. 

  
        "I'm not here to take you anywhere. Please, calm down." Ludwig said in a placating tone. Peacemaking was one of his talents. It seemed to soothe Gilbert, as he nodded his acknowledgment and opened the door for him. 

  
        Gilbert's space was minimalist and immaculate. Although they were very different inside and out, the Beilschmidts all shared a need for a clean area. To both of them, cleaning was a way to have a calming routine in even the most stressful of situations. It could be considered an impulse. 

  
        Ludwig sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter as Gilbert got him a beer. God knows how much he needed one. 

  
        They sat there in silence for a bit, drinking. But when their bottles were a swig away from done, Ludwig broke the silence.

  
        "Why?" It was a question that may seem vague to anyone else, but Gilbert knew exactly what it was about. 

  
        "You know I don't belong... Out there, Luddy. Right here, now this is home."

  
        "Am I not your family, too?"

  
        "Of course you are are. It's just... Lovino picked me out of the gutter, y'know? He's a saint to me."

  
        "I know, I know. You worship the ground he walks on. And do his dirty work."

  
        "It's just business. You of all people should know how these things work!"

  
        "Gilbert, I know how these things work because I'm a government employee. I'm supposed to by stopping this "business"." 

  
        A pregnant pause. 

  
       "I think you should leave." Gilbert stated menacingly. It wasn't a request. It warned of consequences. Ludwig nodded, walking out. 

 

***

       Alfred and Lovino were back in the office where they first met. The blonde was sprawled out over an armchair, shot after shot disappeared down his throat. The brunette laughed as he sipped at a fine glass of white wine.

  
       The glass was set down on the table with a little clink. Lovino snatched the bottle of liquor out of his companion's hand and downed the last of it with little resistance from his almost nonexistent gag reflex. 

  
       "You are such a lightweight." The Italian said, sitting himself down on Alfred's lap. 

  
       "Your accent is real *hic* hot, y'know?" The hitman slurred, a lazy smile on his face. 

  
       "Hmm... Seems like Alfred junior likes it, too." 

  
       "If you don't take your pants off *hic* right now, my balls are gonna fuckin' explode." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Twin Skeletons/Hotel in NYC by Fall Out Boy


	8. So Raise Your Glass High, For Tomorrow We Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extermination

 

     "You two had fun last night." Commented Gilbert. A chuckle escaped Lovino's throat as he ran his fingers over the bruises on his collarbone. Alfred smirked and snaked a hand around the brunette's waist, casting a smug stare at the hickeys.

  
     "You look like shit, Gilbert." Said Lovino. 

   
     "I've got a massive hangover. The Tylenol hasn't kicked in yet."

  
     "Drowning your sorrows in alcohol isn't good for you." Stated Alfred matter-of-factly. Gilbert snorted. 

  
     "You say that like you don't get another addiction every week." Gilbert retorted, jokingly. 

  
     "Okay, enough with the banter. We've got a job to do." Lovino said, reigning in the conversation. "Death doesn't wait for you to catch up."

 

***

  
     Alfred paused. His hands stilled on his rifle, the task of setting up abandoned. 

  
     "They look like little ants down there." He remarked, breathless in some psychopathic form of an adrenaline rush. Lovino turned toward him, piercing eyes cracking through every piece of his being. It seemed as though Alfred's skin was translucent, and Lovino could see every little bit of his mind, his heart. His soul. Every little neuron firing as blood-covered thoughts raced through his head like skeletal greyhounds. Then there it was- a ghost of a smile on the perfect, handsome face. 

  
     "Then your job is to.. step on them, if you will." 

  
     Alfred's hands went back to work.

   
     "No, my job is to make sure you don't get your pretty little hands dirty." Lovino laughed and turned, walking away. 

  
     A few minutes later, Alfred had his scope set on his boss. His boss, and the little group surrounding him. There was a sturdily built man with an offsetting smile and a heavily armed, sharp-edged girl. A deep, passionate frown was set on her face. 

  
     Lovino and the man talked. Not that Alfred could hear it, of course. All he saw were mouths moving. The girl stayed silent and still, like a shadow. 

  
     There- Lovino's hands went to his tie pin. He pulled it. 

  
     It was like pulling a trigger. 

  
     Alfred recognized the signal immediately. A breath was drawn in. Subsequently, two shots went off. Two perfectly aimed shots. 

 

***

  
     The  _crack!_ Of gunfire jolted Matthias awake. He fell harshly back into the world of the living with his arms wrapped around another warm body. Said warm body yawned and stretched when it, too woke up. 

  
     "G'morning, Lukey." Greeted Matthias. "At least, I think it's the morning. Was that a gun? Is that normal?" 

  
     "Don't call me that. Yes, that's normal. It's too early for talking." Grumbled the disgruntled blonde. "Can I just go back to bed?"

  
     "About that..." Matthias shifted uncomfortably under the sheets. "I've got some morning wood. Ready for round three? Or was it four?" Lukas raised an eyebrow. 

  
     "Why can't you take care of it yourself?"

  
     "Please!!!" Whined the Dane, frustratedly rutting against the other's thigh. Lukas grunted and swung his leg over Matthias' lap, assuming a straddle position reminiscent of their first evening. 

  
"Fine. But you owe me one."

 

***

 

      "Our Braginsky problem is solved." As he said the words, Lovino handed Gilbert his sports jacket to hang up, going to pour himself a glass of wine. 

  
     "So Alfred took care of your little rat problem, eh? Where's the little fucker now?"

  
     "Probably splashing in that Russian and his bitch of a sister's blood like a little kid jumping in puddles." 

  
     "I wouldn't be surprised."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Mama by My Chemical Romance


	9. She's a Butcher with a Smile (Cut Me Farther)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run away from your problems with me?

 

     Hellfire blazed in Gilbert's eyes, roaring relentlessly despite the dull, damp grey that surrounded him. He trudged through the moonlit alleys with a frustrated ferocity, aimlessly searching for something, nothing.

  
     Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something a bit different from the normal hired guns and whores that lined the path. A flash of honey blonde- of sparkling eyes and a contagious laugh. It disappeared into an alley, a gurgling noise following almost immediately.

  
     Intrigued, Gilbert turned and peered into the alley. He had no fears, he owned these streets. A nondescript man (the dark made it hard to see him) was slumped against the wall, a knife through his neck. A figure with shoulder-length, butterscotch blonde hair and a feminine figure loomed above him, picking through what was presumably the dead man's wallet.

  
    A smile broke out on Gilbert's face.

  
     "Long time no see, Francis." The albino said, his arms across his chest.

  
     "Ah, Gilbert, mon cheri! How are you doing these days?" Francis relaxed, but not after straightening his outfit, a rather flattering combination of a dusty rose dress shirt tucked into a high-waisted leather pencil skirt. Fashionable as always.

  
     "Could be better, I s'pose. I thought you were off the streets, Franny?"

  
     "I am. This is more of a.. recreational activity." A tinkling laugh like the sound of orchestral chimes escaped from a lipstick-framed mouth.

  
     "Apart from this, what do you do these days?" Gilbert asked, honestly relieved to escape the nagging thoughts that followed him after that conversation with his brother.

  
     "I'm a secretary for some rich man uptown. Nothing too interesting or glamorous, but it pays decently."

  
      "Does your employer know what's under your skirt?" Gilbert asked with a raised eyebrow. Francis was well known for entirely disregarding the gender binary, and was often mistaken for a woman. That was his appeal. He liked it that way.

  
     "Well, we've fucked on numerous occasions, so I sure hope so. For an Englishman, he's surprisingly passable at sex." Gilbert laughed at this. The Frenchman had some interestingly unjustifiable prejudices.

  
     "Say, would you like to go out for drinks? On me-or, rather, on whoever this is." Francis asked, waving around a fifty he'd plucked from the man's wallet.

  
     "Ah, what the Hell. Sure."

*

     On the same night, in a different ally, on the other end of the city, another of Gilbert's old friends watched the moon (unfortunately obscured by clouds and urban smog) make its steady climb from her balcony. An abandoned cup of coffee sat ice cold on a nearby glass table. Light olive fingers danced over the rim of the white ceramic mug. The chipped maroon polish complemented her short, simple black dress quite nicely.

  
     "What are you thinking about, Elizabeth?" A dark haired man asks as he shuts the sliding glass door to the balcony. Pale, delicate pianist's fingers play with her mouse-brown hair.

  
     "Nothing for you to worry about, Roderich." She says in a consoling, sweet tone as she slips a pistol into the holster on her thigh, hidden beneath her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Tear in my Heart by Twenty Øne Piløts


	10. I Know It’s Just A Number But You’re The Eighth Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warm blooded.

 

 

Lovino was a golden sovereign, a near-perfect imposter of God himself-But so like God, he was too good to be true. It seemed like a golden halo hung behind his head, not quite unlike the Virgin Mary in some dusty Rennaisance painting. It was all Alfred could do not to lose himself in Bacchanalic-esque revelry, to not sink deeper than he already was in sweet sin.

 

The blonde bit down, hard, and felt his teeth sink into the soft, olive skin of the other's shoulder as he rode out the high. A shudder went through Lovino's body in response, and the brunette dragged his nails down Alfred's back, leaving marks the whole way down. Alfred pulls his mouth away, and what he assumed would be golden ichor was red and hot and running down his teeth. The coppery taste filled him with a rush of ecstasy.

 

He stared into Lovino's impossibly deep eyes with rusty red blood dripping from his canines, and it seemed like the secret to immortality lurked in those dark shadows. There's a stain of scarlet, quickly drying dark brown, on the silk sheets. The brunette smirks at him before speaking, raspy and rough and perfect.

 

"Harder."

 

*

 

Matthias types furiously on his laptop, an abandoned bottle of Jägermeister sitting next to him. Suddenly, he hears his text tone and turns it on to check his messages. He really doesn't want to be interrupted, this is the first time he's written anything good in weeks-

 

Oh. It's Lukas.

 

All annoyance and frustration immediately disappear when he sees the name - His boyfriend's name, he thinks smugly - pops up on his screen. Hey , It reads. Do you wanna get coffee with me? 

 

Yes, yes, yes!

 

                Matthias cannot help but feel rush of childish excitement- he hasn't been in a real relationship for years, give him a break- as he replied with an enthusiastic of course!

 

The Dane lies back on his unmade bed and laughs without reason nor rhyme. He feels like hot chocolate and blankets on cold days, like hygge and all things good in the world. His eyes open-he didn't even realize they were closed- and he grins, because why not?

 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Wilson (Expensive Mistakes) by Fall Out Boy


	11. I Thought of Angels, Choking on Their Halos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> License to kill.

 

     Arthur prided himself on being a sensible man. So, of course, he left INTERPOL as soon as they would let him out. He landed himself a cushy salary after a few months of investing in real estate and having headaches from trips to the London stock exchange. However, it was worth it to have a Chicago penthouse and a handsome secretary who sometimes wore skirts and red, red lipstick that got all over their skin when they made out like teenagers.

  
      Unfortunately, INTERPOL had decided to unceremoniously yank Arthur out of his cozy retirement paradise and make him do investigations with the local FBI. Arthur didn't like American police, they reminded him of that poor boy Alfred, what he had been through...

  
     And Alfred was exactly why it was here. Him and mafiaso Lovino Vargas, of course. Oh, what a pair they made- A gun-toting psychopath and the horniest bastard in the hemisphere.

  
     Arthur checked his cufflinks and considered putting more bullets in the shotgun under his suit jacket. With a snort, he realized he was a veritable James Bond. After all, he  had just fucked his own employee over a desk. What could he say- Francis' French accent was incredibly attractive, as much as he hated to admit it.

  
     "Mr. Kirkland? Do you need anything?" That same sweet voice asked. Arthur paused in his primping.

  
     "Francis, how long have you been in the city?"

  
     "A good while."

  
     "Could you, then, perhaps answer some questions of mine?"

  
     " _D'accord_ , I can try." Francis makes eye contact with him. He's got mascara on his lashes, today, and they look even fuller and darker than they normally do. It's a bit smeared, but that's to be expected, considering what they just did.

  
     "Do you know anything about organized crime around here? Gangs, and the like." Francis stiffens, and alarm flashes through his eyes.

  
     " _Je_ suis _désolé_. I cannot answer that." It's to be expected. If he had known anything, telling an outsider would mean an immediate price on his head.

  
     "That's alright." Arthur responds, sliding on a coat. "I'll be going, now."

  
     He starts to make his way out the door, but is stopped by Francis.

  
     "Please be careful."

*

     "What's going on in here?" Alfred asked after he had opened the heavy, oak door with an audible creak. In front of him was quite the sight- a man, tied to a chair, so covered in blood there was no way to recognize him. The hitman was pretty sure there were a few fingers in the pool of gore on the floor. he regarded the image with a practiced eye. "I'm sure he learned his lesson."

  
     Lovino, who was behind the chair, smiled and nodded, running a knife down his victim's neck in an almost lover-like caress. the dirtied metal paused at the side of the Adam's apple, and sunk in deep, finishing the job. Alfred sucked in a breath. He didn't think killing someone could be so sexy. He giggled, just a bit, when he realized that he really was absolutely insane.

  
     The Italian inspected the blood under his fingernails with disdain, grumbling as he grabbed a glass of wine from an end table.

  
     "INTERPOL cracked one of my banks in Malta." He said, accent thick with frustration. "I had to deal with the rats, of course."

  
     "Of course." Repeated Alfred. Lovino sloshed his drink around a bit, letting the deep red liquid run down the sides of the cup. The scent of iron and wine permeated the air, almost as if the blood was hanging in a heavy cloud above their heads. "Alfred, would you be so kind as to run a bit of a favor for me? I need this delivered." Lovino held up a letter that was sealed with wax in the most pretentious way possible.

  
     "Can't a grunt do it, or something?"

  
     "I want it safe."

  
     "Alright, you're the boss." Alfred started to make his way out of the room.

  
     "Oh, and Alfred," Lovino yanked Alfred's tie so he could look slightly down at the blonde. Alfred felt his air cutting off a bit. "I am the boss. Remember that the next time you question my judgment."

  
     "Yes, sir." Alfred replied, grinning.

  
     "And take care of that boner."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy.


	12. So Put the "D" in Dirt Now, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't get hooked.

 

 

 

     “Gilbert, _mon ami_. Help me dye my hair.” Francis is standing at his door with reddened eyes and hickeys all over his neck. Gilbert smiles, glad he reignited this friendship. Shrugging, he swings the door right open and lets Francis waltz in, the blonde shoving a box of what can be assumed is hair dye at him.

  
     “Platinum.” Gilbert reads off the box. “It will definitely match the Botox.” He decides, giving his friend a wry smile, getting a faux gasp in response.

  
     “How dare you! This smooth skin is _au natural_!”

  
     They giggle a bit as they rush to the bathroom, Francis probably high off his ass and Gilbert... Well, before he was interrupted, he was in the process of getting completely smashed.

  
     He likes to think the bathroom is clean, but it’s the only messy part of his otherwise impeccable apartment. It’s the physical manifestation of all the sins he hides from others. There’s a half-finished vodka bottle next to a pair of brass knuckles, which are possibly Lovino’s, sitting on the counter. A dusting of what might be cocaine is on the lid of the uncannily white toilet, and there are pill containers spilling out their contents on the shower shelves. A loaded shotgun sits precariously on the lid of the trash can, complementing the entire scene.

  
     The air hangs heavy with the saccharine scent of air freshener. It’s supposed to smell like linen, Gilbert thinks, or fresh breeze and waterfalls. Instead, it smells like watered-down bleach. Which is, coincidentally, what Francis is pouring into his hair.

  
     Gilbert gives a silent affirmation to the careful ministrations of his friend, who is somehow able to dye his own hair in a thorough and extremely meticulous way despite being hyped up on cheap drugs and rough sex. Really, Francis is the epitome of all that is human. On the outside: beautiful, synthetic. On the inside: imperfect, _real._

  
     Once he finishes washing out the extra chemicals, Gilbert hands him a towel and he dries his hair off. Francis turns to the mirror and reapplies his favorite scarlet lipstick with twitching hands.

  
     “You, _monsieur_ , were no help.” The Frenchman remarks, giving his companion a pouty expression. “Now you have to make it up to me.”

  
     “I have Mean Girls and alcohol.” Gilbert offers, grinning. “And a dick.”

  
     Francis smiles.

  
     “Deal.”

  
     Soon, they’re on the brown leather couch, and the movie’s over but-they-don’t-care. They finished an entire bottle of wine Gilbert barely remembered having, and consumed enough drugs to tranquilize, if not kill, a medium-sized gorilla.

  
     They used to do it all the time, so it’s not really a surprise when Francis’ lips are on his, and when Gilbert lets his pale fingers dig into his counterpart’s soft hair. It’s not a surprise when they’re hot and sweaty and Francis’ acrylic nails are leaving scratches down his back, ‘cause all they feel is passion and _ecstasy_. Would it be wrong to call it stress relief? It wasn’t _love-making_ and it wasn’t _hate-fucking_ and it didn’t matter, not in the long run. They enjoyed the present, like college kids at clubs with loud music and shitty drinks.

  
     This feeling is what Gilbert enjoyed. The high, the chase for it. He lived for pleasure that was gone in an instant, because it could take the pain away, just for a little bit. When he was with Francis, he didn’t have to think about Ludwig or Grandfather or Roderich or Elizabeth or anyone. It was heaven on earth, and like all dreams of ethereal bliss, it was too good to be true.

*

     "Hello, are you Officer Beilschmidt?" Arthur asked the tall blonde man standing in front of him with a cup of black coffee.

  
     "Please call me Ludwig, Mister Kirkland." He had a slight accent, but overall his voice was comfortable and baritone. A down-to-earth, hardworking sort of man.

  
     "In that case, I'm Arthur." The man put down his coffee to shake his hand. Ah. A firm handshake, that one. He flips through the files on the tables. "Any leads so far?" They're investigating a double homicide on North, the killing of arms dealer Ivan Braginsky and his sister. The Brit already knows who did it: Jones, of course, but when he brings that up, Ludwig says they should do more investigation first. He seems nervous, and that's a bit funny, considering how tall and strong-looking he is. However, the mob around these parts is quite scary, and there's no doubt the FBI isn't anxious to work near them. It's exactly why Arthur is here, to figure out these things for himself.

  
     “I’ve got one. Matthias Kølher, a local. He was seen near the scene of the crime when it happened. Not a suspect, but he may have seen what when on.”

  
     “Good, see if you can sniff him out.” Replied Arthur, still reading through various papers. _Gilbert Beilshmidt_ , he reads on the top of one page. Gazing at the back of Ludwig’s retreating head. There are not many Beilshmidts around here, surely it would be reasonable to think- he shakes the idea out of his head. It should have no bearing on this case.

  
     He just hoped Ludwig would be able to make sacrifices, if the time ever came.

  
     When Francis came into work the next morning, Arthur pretended not to see the track marks peeking out from under the sleeves that were pulled up just a little too far. Everyone had their vices, he reminded himself. He still remembered his first year of university, when he listened to garage rock and pierced his ears with safety pins. He longed for those times, on the days that nostalgia settled through his bones like a heavy chill. 

     Sighing, he turned his attention back to the current case. There was no time for dreaming.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Death Valley by Fall Out Boy


	13. I Hold My Crown Till My Heart Stops Beating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If God's dead, who's he?

      Elizabeth didn't recognize the person at her door.

  
     She did, however, recognize the initials, signed in perfect, pretty cursive on the letter he was holding. Black ink stained the paper purposefully, like paint on canvas. She knew that if the stationary was closer to her, she'd be able to pick up the saccharine scent of carnations.

  
     The stranger smiled, a bright white thing that spoke of danger and mystery. _There's more beyond the surface. If you dare to look, that is._

  
     "Hiya! Letter's for you." He handed the paper to her, his glasses glinting with harsh sunlight.

  
     "Who's this from?" She asked, even though she already knew.

  
     "The boss." _Duh_ was a silent addition. With admirable nonchalance, he turned and walked (more like skipped) away.

  
     "Elizabeth? What was that?"

  
     "Just mail, sweetheart." She answered, plastering yet another fake smile on her face. She did it for Roderich's sake. He looked the picture of aristocratic elegance, all angles and perfectly combed dark-brown hair. How she longed to spill her guts right then and there, to give up all the secrets she had been keeping for so long.  
But she kept her lips sealed as tightly as the letter in her hand. For Roderich.

  
     ...For Gilbert.

  
     "Oh, alright. In that case, I'm off." He shrugged on his expensive steel-blue peacoat as he waltzed out the door, the door from which her fate had arrived just minutes ago, packaged in a one-hundred percent cotton envelope.

  
     With shaking hands, she slid a letter opener through the paper, trying not to think of what it reminded her of. Yet again she stared at that telltale pristine calligraphy of a man who was more killer than human.

  
      _Dearest Erzsébet_ , Oh, she hated that name. _How would you like to meet an old friend?_

*

     "You don't have HIV, right?" Gilbert asked, far more calm than he should have been. Francis shrugged in response.

  
     "Maybe. I don't really care to find out. Hazard of the job, you know. What can you do. Now get me an Ibuprofen. _Sacré bleu_ , I've got quite the hangover..." Francis rubbed his head and grumbled something in French to finish his sentence. Gilbert got up to comply with his request and noticed the used needles and empty bottles of alcohol laying around them.

  
     "We should be dead." He concluded.

  
     "Please, _mon ami_ , you and I have survived much worse."

  
     Gilbert sent Francis on his way with a brown-paper doggie bag of questionable substances and a IOU for a night on the town. With a sigh, he resigned himself to his work. Slipping on his beat-up leather jacket, he shoved an extra round of ammunition in his pocket and headed out.

  
     His assignment was the usual. Collect some debts, rough people up a bit, defend his territory. Mafia stuff.

  
     He snorted. _Mafia stuff_.

  
     Making his way through the damp allies, he tried not to notice the various examples of prime American street trash around him. Hookers, addicts, more hookers- _JesusChristthatwasn’tahooker_ -

  
     Elizabeth stared at him with wide green eyes. Her winged eyeliner was worn off on one side.

  
    “Gilbert...?”

  
     Her shaking hands flew to his face, her thumbs swiping over his cheekbones-

  
     She slapped him. Hard.

  
     “ _Mein Gott_ , woman.” With watering eyes, he rubbed his face and looked at her. "I fuckin' missed you."

  
     They stood there in silence, for a bit, just looking at each other.

  
     "Roderich and I got married in the Spring." Elizabeth eventually said.

  
     "I wish I could've been there. Specs always did look good in formal wear." She chuckled at his statement and smiled, sadly. He scratched the base of his neck, sheepishly. "I'm sorry I left. I just-"

  
     "I know what happened, Gil. Roderich, though... He thinks you're dead. He gets your flute out on your birthday every year, takes it to the shop and gets it cleaned up."

  
      _Maybe I can play it again, someday_ was an impossible response.

  
     Gilbert hated Elizabeth, hated Roderich, for holding on to his memories. They were cowards for not accepting his fate.

  
     But was he not also a coward? For running away from his past, for not standing and dying like a man.

  
     Cynical irony dripped like sweat down his brow.

  
     "Why are you here, Liz? Tell me the truth." He spoke with a measured kind of seriousness that he had not used in a long time. Elizabeth shoved her hands in her pockets and looked at the stone wall behind him.

  
     "Got a letter from Vargas." Gilbert swore in German.

  
     "Don't tell me you got roped into this mess, too?"

  
     "I was looking for you." She sternly replied, staring directly at him. He averted his eyes.

  
     "It's a hard life, Lizzie."

  
     "I know."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Solo by Prismo

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Everybody Wants to Rule The World by Lorde.


End file.
